The Immortals II: Michael

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Please don’t tell me there is some mystical Lady of the Lake floating around somewhere too!”

  Michael tried not to wince, reminding himself that Sophie was practical and logical. She had, after all, gone to medical school for years and thought like a scientist, not like the witches he was used to working with. She would need time to accept Truth.

  “Perhaps it would help if I gave you my theory on the difference between non-existence and forgetting-to-remember?” he asked.

  She eyed him warily. “Okay.”

  “The ancient gods and goddesses have faded into Time because people have gradually forgotten about them. Many of those religions, like the Celts, were based on worship of the divine-feminine. The goddess in her three forms: maiden, mother, crone.” He paused, but Sophie seemed to be still listening. “In the third century, when the Romans decided it would further their needs to hoist a single religion on the world they were conquering, they chose to adopt the new religion as their own. But the warrior legions would be thought weak to worship the Great Mother. They kept the holy trinity but made it a god instead: father, son, spirit.”

  Sophie’s brows creased and Michael could see she was processing the information. Her breathing had slowed to a normal, deeper rate too. He tried not to notice how her breasts lifted with each inhalation or think about how good they would feel pressed against his chest as he held her, massaging her back and making her feel better. Then he chided himself for letting his mind run amok again.

  “You are talking about the spread of Christianity?” she asked.

  Michael nodded, forcing himself to refocus. It had been decades, if not centuries, that a woman had distracted him this much. “Constantine was no fool. He knew the conquered tribes had deep roots in goddess worship so he didn’t even try to take away their sacred festivals. He merely incorporated them into his own calendar. Samhain became the Hallowed Eve of All Saints. Yule was the time to celebrate the Christ’s Mass and birth. Ostara’s celebration became Easter and Beltane was called Whitsun. Over time, people forgot the origins of the holy days. That doesn’t mean those goddesses didn’t exist.”

  Sophie stared at him now, her sapphire eyes appraising. “But they are gone now.” She hesitated a moment. “Aren’t they?”

  How many times had he summoned the old gods--Tanio of Fire, Awyr of Air, Dwfr of Water, and Pridd of Earth—when he called the quarters at the full-moon meetings of the coven of witches that he worked with? The balance of their magic gave the Circle its power. But Michael was pretty sure Sophie wasn’t ready to hear any of that just yet or even accept what he was. Maybe especially not what he was.

  He shrugged slightly. “Perhaps they only slumber.”

  “Like the legend of King Arthur and his knights sleeping until the world needs them again?” Sophie asked with more than a trace of sarcasm in her voice.

  Michael smiled at her. If only she knew… “Something like that,” he said. “Is it so hard to believe that deities live—some good, some evil—beyond our recognition?” He tilted his head a bit. “You saw a dragon earlier.”

  Sophie’s face paled. Her mouth opened and then closed. She blinked her eyes and then sagged back into the armchair in defeat. “I really wasn’t hallucinating?”

  “No. What you saw was real.”

  She shook her head. “Dragons aren’t real.”

  Michael opened his mind and sent a strand of magic toward her forehead to link with her third-eye chakra. Hopefully, it would help her accept what seemed impossible. “He left those scorch marks so that you would not doubt.”

  Her eyes widened slightly as his wisp of magic touched her. “Who is he?” she whispered.

  Michael took a deep breath, hoping he could keep the flickering magical connection with her mind for a bit longer. He had seldom met someone with such a protective shield of logic as she had. “He is the Pendragon. Defender of Britain.”

  She stared at him. “Like in King Arthur Pendragon?”

  “Not exactly. The term is a title, meaning “Mightiest Dragon”. Even after dragon-kind retreated to the safety of the mists, the gods assigned a Dragon Protector to each land. Britain was prophesied to one day rule the world.” He smiled. “The Pendragon stopped the Romans. They never were able to conquer Wales, Scotland, or Ireland.”

  “But the Britains lost to the Saxons eventually,” Sophie said. “That is a fact in all the history books.”

  “Partially true. Vortigern, the betrayer, allowed the white dragon of the North on to Britain’s soil. They didn’t conquer all of it though.”

  Sophie eyed him skeptically. “Just for the sake of argument—however illogical this is—does the white dragon still live too?”

  “I don’t know,” Michael answered. “Most of what was written about dragons exists only in metaphysical references. As the new religion became stronger, the old gods’ power grew weaker. The dragons eventually withdrew from activities on Earth.” What he didn’t add was that the white dragon had been Balor’s pet.

  “So why is the red dragon back now? It makes no sense.”

  Sophie spoke the word triumphantly, as though she had just won their little argument. Her chin lifted and she gave him a determined look as if to challenge his response to her logic. He wondered if she were part Vulcan. She didn’t have pointy ears. Then he bit back a grin.

  His experience with women had been that the harder they tried to remain logical, the hotter their physical response was once he found the key to unlock all those repressed emotions. He wanted very much to be the man who opened her to the pleasures of unleashed, lustful passion. His groin tightened in response and he pulled his thoughts back. Someday—but first, there was the matter of finding the sword.

  “Do you remember that research project I told you about earlier?” When she nodded, he continued. “I am looking for a very old sword that was once a holy relic of the old Celtic religion. It has magical powers that could be deadly if it fell into the wrong hands.”

  Sophie was staring at him again, this time total disbelief evident on her face. “A magical sword? Give me a break. Next, you’ll be telling me it’s stuck in a stone someplace and you have to pull it out!”

  “That was a different sword,” Michael replied. “This one was made from a fiery stone that fell to earth more than two thousand years ago. The red dragon found the meteor and forged the sword with his own breath. I think he’s returned to help me find it.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, you weave quite an incredible faerie tale,” Sophie said, “but how gullible do you think I am? Tell me, how did you rig the hologram to appear right over my clinic?”

  Michael studied her for a silent moment. She began to squirm in her chair. “I had no idea of where your clinic was,” he finally said and waited for that truth to sink in.

  Sophie stilled. “Then how—?” When he didn’t answer, her face paled. “Even if what you say is true…what…what would the dragon want with me?”

  “That I truly do not know,” he answered, “but somehow, I think you are to assist me in finding the sword. And there is someone else who is looking for it. We must find it before he does.”

  “Of course. Let’s add to the mystery here. Maybe a twenty-first century version of Romancing the Stone? ”

  “This isn’t a movie, Sophie. I’ve told you the truth. I know it sounds strange.”

  “Strange?” She gave a clipped laugh that sounded more like a bark. “What is this—Sword of Fire—supposed to look like?”

  “The blade shines blue-silver, like the very finest steel. The hilt is gold with silver runes and a large ruby is set in the pommel.”

  “Very distinctive. A ceremonial sword?” Sophie asked, a trace of sarcasm still lingering.

  Michael shook his head. “Not ceremonial. Excalibur was wielded in many battles.”

  “Excalibur? The legendary sword of the mythical King Arthur?”

  Michael watched her warily. She didn’t believe him. What more could he say? Very discreetly, he sent
her a truth spell along a thin tendril of magic toward her.

  “I am not lying,” he said. “We seek Excalibur.”

  Her eyes rounded for a moment. “Of course we do.” She began to laugh, softly at first, then more sharply. Tears trickled down her face as her volume increased. She began to hiccup, but she couldn’t stop laughing.

  There were only two cures for hysteria that Michael knew. One was to slap the person. The other way was a kiss.

  Michael reached down and lifted Sophie into his arms, his mouth settling over hers, claiming sweet victory along with salty tears. Her lips trembled beneath his, soft and full and warm. His tongue licked along the crease, encouraging her to open for him and he was rewarded with a small moan low in her throat as she stilled.

  And then it was his turn to groan, as her knee connected with a very swollen part of him.

  * * * *

  Adam Baylor took a puff of his Cuban cigar and leaned back against the soft cabretta leather of the overstuffed sofa in the penthouse suite of one of Dallas’ most luxurious hotels. His silk bathrobe lay open and he spread his legs so the naked woman kneeling in front of him could have better access to his cock. He pushed her head down.

  “I said suck it. Hard. And take it all. You are not pleasing me.”

  Obligingly, Morgan widened her mouth and stretched her throat until she consumed the length of him.

  “That’s better,” he said and reached down to pinch her nipples until she whimpered in pain. There was so much pleasure in giving pain. And Morgan liked it as much as he did. He felt his shaft grow harder.

  “Take her from behind,” he instructed his newest minion, Carl Landon. Apart from owing over a hundred thousand dollars in gambling debt to Baylor, the kid was a darn good screwer. And Baylor enjoyed watching as much as doing. “My treat.”

  The athletic young man grinned and lost no time in unzipping his jeans and plunging deep inside her, his thrusts hard and fast. Morgan moaned and sucked harder.

  Baylor glanced sideways at Alan Caldwell who was sitting in an armchair across from him. His expression was grim and Baylor almost smiled. Caldwell had a thing for Morgan and it nearly killed him having to watch two other men using her.

  Not that the bitch minded being used. When Caldwell had recruited her to help him get rid of Sara Kincaid, she had let him know—in no uncertain terms—that she wanted to be a model. Baylor had arranged to make that happen, but he enjoyed the extra bit of malice in making Caldwell watch and not touch, especially since the man hated him. Caldwell was loyal only because Baylor knew where his fragile, elderly mother lived.

  Baylor let his gaze slide over to Toby Clark who, as usual, fidgeted. The kid was lanky and looked like a nerd and was mild-mannered to boot. The perfect combination to be any bully’s victim. Knowing that Clark’s virginal sister was wheelchair-bound made him an even more perfect mark.

  “Did you make any progress with the vet?” he asked.

  Toby swallowed nervously. “I think so. The other reporters were accusing her of setting up a publicity stunt and I acted like the nice guy.”

  “And?”

  He swallowed again. “I’m going back tomorrow morning and ask for an interview.”

  Baylor grunted and spurted into Morgan’s mouth, then pushed her face away. Carl gave a final thrust and finished as well.

  “See that you don’t fail me this time,” Baylor said to Toby.

  Toby’s face turned bright red. “Yes, sir.”

  “Caldwell. I’ll need for you go back to that lunatic Smith and tell him you got an offer to write a book and you want to include a Chapter on his weaponry. The vet and that damn warlock paid him a visit before the dragon was sighted. Somehow that nutcase is involved in this and I want you to stay close.”

  “Got it.”

  “Landon, you’re going to be the stakeout. Stay hidden, but follow the warlock.”

  “I could follow Michael,” Morgan said.

  One of Baylor’s brows lifted and he almost smiled. He knew the little bitch was hot to rut with the warlock. “I’m sure you would like nothing better than to follow him, but I want you to infiltrate the vet’s clinic. The media is going to be pouncing and you do have a gift for public relations.” Public sexual relations too, he thought.

  She looked disappointed, but nodded.

  “That’s my pet,” he said. “Now go, all of you. I want everyone positioned by tomorrow. We have to find out what the second verse to the damn riddle is. I do not intend to lose the sword as well.”

  He waited for several minutes to be sure they had all cleared the hotel and then he called for his car to be brought around. He had discovered a ley line—a source of universal energy—not far from the Dallas County boundary, near a lake. It would be from there that he would call the white dragon.

  The white dragon had beaten the red in Vortigern’s time. With Baylor’s help, the white would destroy the red this time and evil would gain a stronger foothold in the world.

  Baylor smiled, anticipating the outcome of that.

  Chapter Three

  The knight crested the hill, silhouetted against bright moonlight that dappled the rocky crevices lining the canyons of Palo Pinto County. It reflected on his armor. The big destrier pawed the ground, anxious to charge.

  Sophie’s eyes flicked from him to the dragon that sat atop a butte across a small ravine. It puffed small balls of smoke, much as an old train steam engine stoking up to move forward.

  Her feet were rooted to the ground between them. “It’s going to attack!” she screamed at the knight, but only a small squeak emerged.

  He looked down at her and pulled his sword. The dragon snorted, shooting fire that set the sword aflame. The great warhorse reared as the knight turned it for the charge. But instead of thundering toward the dragon, the knight was coming toward her.

  Sophie willed her legs to run, but they would not move. The dragon snorted again, but the sound was almost like laughter as the knight descended on her. My God, she was going to be trampled!

  At the last moment, the horse skidded to a stop, clumps of grass and dirt scattering around her. The knight slid from the saddle, the flaming sword still in his hand and reached for her—

  And suddenly it was Michael who was holding her, clad only in leather breeches, the sword and armor gone. His bare chest felt like smooth, chiseled marble as his hands stroked up and down her back, soothing her.

  “The dragon will not hurt you,” he whispered as he bent to nuzzle her neck,, sending pleasant little shivers down her spine.

  Her weak spot—kiss her nape and her knees turned to putty— whatever thoughts she might have had flitted away like dandelion silk on the wind. How did he know?

  Michael’s dark eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “I know all about you. I am going to make you mine.”

  Like hell he was. Hadn’t she already made the message clear—and then, he nuzzled her neck again, this time mouthing her skin softly as he trailed kisses to her earlobe. A little mewling sound escaped her throat.

  “You wanted to say something?” he whispered and before she could, his mouth covered hers, seductive and persuasive.

  Dear Lord! Who could have thought a man’s lips could be so soft and firm at the same time? And warm and dry while his tongue was wet and hot? And when had she opened her mouth to let him in? But he certainly was in, his tongue doing a wicked impersonation of what his other member would do.

  He tasted of some spice she could not identify and smelled slightly of salt-air and heather, as though they were on were on Scottish moors rather than in Texas. It was a heady combination and the world tilted as she pressed suddenly heavy, swollen breasts against him. His hands slid down her back and grasped her buttocks, bringing her fully against his large, granite-hard erection.

  “Let me make love to you,” he whispered as he took them both slowly to the ground—

  Sophie landed with a thump on the floor beside her bed. She squinted in the dark room illuminated only b
y the wash of moonlight streaming through her window onto the hardwood floor. The silence told her she was alone. There certainly was no dragon or knight with a flaming sword. And there was no Michael.

  She disentangled herself from the twisted bed sheets that had accompanied her fall, picked herself up and sat on the edge of the bed. To her chagrin, her breasts tingled, her nipples were tight, and there was warm moisture between her legs.

  For the past year, since her galling divorce from her cheating husband, she had not even entertained a thought of dating anyone. Her body had numbed and become neutral and that was how she wanted it. Much safer than to allow a man to play with her emotions again. Too much pain…

  Why in the world had she dreamed about Michael McCain? And who was the knight with the flaming sword?

  * * * *

  The dragon curled its tail around its claws with a clanging of metal scales and settled on the hardened earth of the cave he’d found near Crawford Mountain. He snorted, puffs of smoke streaming out the entrance. It could hardly be called a cave—more like a hollowed out crevice beneath a shale overhang—and he barely fit, but it was close to the girl he needed to protect. He sighed, careful not to shoot flames that would ignite the scrub brush that attached itself to the rocky hillsides. The goddess Brighid had not allowed him to take his hoard of gold and silver with him, telling him he needed to focus his dragon’s lust for bright, shiny objects on finding Excalibur before Balor did.

  His problem was that he didn’t know where to begin in this very strange world that moved so fast. He’d been sleeping and dreaming peacefully for fifteen hundred years, thankful to be away from humans. The last he knew was that Galahad had taken the Grail and several other relics to Sarras to keep the Saxons from discovering them. Brighid had told him a group of warrior monks called Templars had rescued the treasure and returned it to Scotland, but because of unrest there as well, the Sinclair Protector had removed them to a foreign land called America.